


The Partnership

by BoringboringboringNoFascinating



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie isn't ill in this one, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, M/M, Underage fumblings - not graphic though, canon divergence starts at the end of season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-10-07 07:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoringboringboringNoFascinating/pseuds/BoringboringboringNoFascinating
Summary: Following the scam with the grenade, Tommy and Alfie agree to work together, and form a powerful alliance that makes both friends and foes uneasy. When an afternoon out at a horse auction in the countryside doesn't go to plan, Tommy and Alfie are forced to confront some underlying tensions and question each other's agendas. What kind of partnership are they really entering into?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First ever fic. My knowledge of horse auctions and the English countryside was a bit vague, but I looked up a good location for them as I reckoned they needed a bit of fresh air. Any really glaring errors or anachronisms, please ignore or let me know if they're really bad.
> 
> Only after reading it did I notice a couple of details were unconsciously inspired by elements of A Dubious Romance, (thanks and I hope you don't mind Magnetism_Bind) plus another fic which I can't remember right now, sorry. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right...

The moment they spit and shake hands, Tommy sees it in his eyes. The usual impatience is replaced by something else. Curiosity. 

Alfie is looking Tommy up and down, wide, searching eyes reappraising him. He suddenly becomes conscious of Tommy returning the stare and looks away dismissively. “Fuck off then, partner”. 

Tommy smirks at him but feels a rush of blood to his head as he turns on his heels and leaves. 

Tommy briefly ponders his dizzy spell as he strides out the distillery in time for the clock to strike. A physical symptom of the relief that his grenade gamble paid off, a release of the adrenaline built up from the stress of the last few days, he tells himself. He considers that cementing this alliance with Solomons - the man who had betrayed him and cut down his initial gains in London – brings him a strange sense of optimism about the future. The giddy sensation returns in force.

_Pull yourself together, Shelby. Survive Epson first._

\-----

Tommy survives Epson, he survives the trudge across the muddy field from his shallow grave, but he barely survives Grace’s next move. 

Grace. As quickly as he had been pulled from his victory against Sabini, she had disappeared from his world once again. Upon opening the door to the family home in Small Heath after two days of hitchhiking in bloodied, muddied clothes, he had been greeted by a dishevelled and stony-faced Polly, who had flung a crumpled envelope towards him, his name inscribed upon it in Grace’s neat hand. She would be on her way back to America by the time he received this message, the letter had explained. _The pregnancy was not what I thought it was_ , the cryptic final sentence had read. 

The euphoria that had surged through him after escaping death, imbuing his body with a strength that allowed him to make the journey home, was at once replaced by a melancholia that consumed him for the next week. _So close. I nearly got everything._ Grace had embodied the everything; a lover, partner, an equal in intellect and strategy who understood his ambitions. He had allowed himself to give into heady optimism when he was with her; he had gradually abandoned his usual caution and thrown himself and his plans headfirst in with her again, only to be betrayed – again. After a week of locking himself in his office, to chain-smoke, drink whisky and focus on paperwork to block Grace out of his thoughts, Tommy had re-emerged, with a renewed sense of resolve: to be on his guard against anyone who got close to making him feel that way again, anyone who insinuated their way into his life so completely that they could make cynical, godless Tommy Shelby dream of a life where he could get _everything._

The work. It builds power, respect, and from those strengths, protection of the family. Let the work and family be everything. So, in the week that follows, Tommy starts once again to tear through the work with abandon, emboldened by no immediate obstacles in his way; no Campbell, no IRA, no peep from Sabini. Right now, there are only opportunities for his businesses to grow. Let there be no distractions from this clear path, Tommy resolves. 

One early morning, he is sat at the breakfast table, smoking and reading the paper, making the most of the relative peace before the rest of the family storm through the door, when John rushes in and carefully sets down a box on the table. “This just got delivered. From a man who says to tell you he came from along Holloway Head way.” Tommy gestures, cigarette in hand, for more information. John shrugs. Tommy opens the box, to find a loaf of sourdough bread, with a notecard stuck into it. _How is the weather in Birmingham tomorrow?_ reads its scrawl. 

Tommy cuts into the bread and spreads it liberally with butter. “Tell Polly we’re to expect Alfie Solomons and one of his men tomorrow. Not a word to Arthur for now, mind, keep him busy at the pub.” He takes a bite of the bread. Not bad.

The next day, there is an air of tension in the bookie area as everyone awaits Alfie Solomon’s arrival. Polly and Michael are walking the main floor as Esme tidies the files around them, all sharp voices giving instructions to the bookies to exercise extra discretion with the paperwork and volume of their conversation today. Lizzie is typing up the final draft of the business agreement that Tommy had dictated to her. John is pacing in the office, stopping now and then to read what Lizzie is typing. Tommy looks around at the hard, solemn faces, absorbed in their tasks. They think that involving this man in the business is bad news. His own trepidation is building.

There is a knock at the door, Tommy’s focus sharpens as he readies himself for business, all other noise and activity falling away from his senses as he walks to the door to open it.

Alfie is standing at the doorstep, surveying the street and tapping his cane. He turns at the sound of the door opening, the wide, searching eyes meet Tommy’s, and the tapping stops. 

“Hello Tommy.” He blinks and there is a sharp intake of breath.

Tommy smiles slightly. “Hello Alfie”. 

\-----

Six months later, and the cash is rolling in at such a rate that the bookies can hardly keep up with the business. Polly and Michael are training book-keeping assistants to help manage the transactions from the factory, exports and protection. John and Arthur coordinate the men and their weapons, their work ethic increasing in line with their income and sharper suits. The family is building a wider circle of dependable contacts and there is a steady increase in the numbers of men they are employing. No one is questioning the Shelby/Solomons arrangement any longer, not even Arthur, who has developed a taste for the Camden white rum that lines the shelves of The Garrison.

And at the centre of these growing industries are Tommy and Alfie, in contact with each other daily, through proxy telephone calls, anonymous telegrams, packages, messengers. Tommy feels like his day revolves around these interactions, and he wonders if Alfie’s does too.

They took time to settle into a productive working relationship this time around, dancing around each other in the first few weeks to negotiate the nature of their power dynamic. Alfie, still bruised from the grenade scam, had started out full of bombast, laying down ultimatums and demands. Tommy had decided to nip this attitude in the bud: concede to Solomons now and he’d be treated like a whipping boy from here on in. During a meeting in London, he’d coolly interrupted Alfie during one of his tirades. “What do you really want, Alfie?” he’d asked simply, taking a draw of his cigarette, and blowing the smoke out slowly. The question had taken Alfie enough by surprise for him to break off from his monologue. After a moment of uncharacteristic silence, Alfie had started answering calmly for the first time, his usual mask of irritation slipping away. Tommy had offered his own honest answers in return. Once the two men had spoken openly and realised just how closely their interests and ambitions were aligned, they agreed to fortnightly meetings and the real strategizing began. 

The more time Tommy and Alfie spend together, the more they understand and respect the motivations of the other, especially as their successes mount up. Gradually, John and Ollie are excluded from their meetings, their roles reduced to cursory weapon searching (well, it would be rude not to search a man entering your territory). The paranoid power plays have mostly given way to shared ideas, and tight planning, although Tommy’s head keeps telling him to pull back on what he shares with Alfie, often in vain. They learn about each other’s intellectual and strategic strengths. One of them shares an idea, and the other builds on it, until after a bit of problem-solving, there is a fully formed plan that rarely fails. For the first time in his life, Tommy realises that he doesn’t have to do all the thinking on his own. Every time he watches Alfie listen to his ideas then break into a grin to offer Tommy his own lightbulb moment in return, Tommy is energised as he senses his – their – power grow. Strange, Alfie’s face is _handsome_ when he laughs…and his manner is becoming more unguarded. “Fuck, I missed you, Tommy”, he says suddenly one day in Tommy’s office at the end of a meeting after two months apart. It’s an attempt at jocular cordiality, but his eyes are bright and searching for something in Tommy again and Tommy’s focus is broken. “Yeah, you too Alfie,” he manages, struggling to break away from Alfie’s gaze. That familiar giddy feeling in his heart and limbs starts to creep through him again, so he pushes it down. 

They demonstrate their loyalty to each other by delivering favours that the other hasn’t asked for. Alfie helps Tommy access his contacts in the South to acquire more business in his factories unrelated to his deals with Alfie; Tommy provides Alfie with more weapons to help Alfie’s protection rackets rebuild themselves. Alfie arranges the murder of a pretender to the Birmingham scene who was foolish enough to wander into London, and Tommy gets rid of an old adversary of Alfie’s who had started sniffing around the docks in Birmingham. As his businesses benefit from the cash injection that deals with Tommy provide, Alfie’s previous habit of playing games behind Tommy’s back is nowhere in evidence. _As far as I can tell anyway_ , Tommy sometimes thinks in warning to himself, as their interests became more intertwined, and those heady rushes of excitement become ever more frequent. _Stay on your guard_.

It is hard to stay on his guard against Alfie, when Alfie keeps showing the will to compromise. Alfie makes more frequent visits to Birmingham than Tommy does to London these days. Travelling to London still holds its risks for Tommy: Sabini still has considerable eyes around the city, and there’s no guaranteed safe passage by canal since Alfie murdered Billy Kitchen. Alfie’s commitment to travelling is tacit acknowledgement of his role in creating the situation. 

Alfie waves away the inconvenience of long hours of travel in typically direct fashion, when Tommy asks him one day if he wants a break from meeting for a while. 

“You’re my fucking cash cow right now, right, and I’m yours. Cows will travel. Moo, mate, moo”, he says, a glint in his eye. There’s a pause. Tommy’s lips twitch, before he gives in, guffawing quietly into his cigarette. 

“I made Tommy Shelby laugh…” Alfie grins triumphantly, 

“Fuck off, Alfie-"

“This is worth a toast.” He gets up and ambles round to Tommy’s side of the desk and takes a bottle of whisky and the two glasses from his drawer. Treating the place like it’s his own bloody house, thinks Tommy. Alfie pours the whisky into the glasses and hands one to Tommy. Tommy takes it and stands up carefully. Let the man play his game. 

They’re standing inches apart. “Indulge me, Tommy”. Alfie murmurs, and raises his glass. He’s still grinning but his gaze has settled on Tommy’s lips.

“You’re not even going to drink that, I know your rules”, Tommy says, and sips the whisky, if just to calm his thudding pulse. 

Alfie takes a step back and looks at the glass. “You’re right, I’m not. I very nearly did, but it’s been so long, one dram of this, right, would probably make me shit myself.” 

The tension is broken and they’re both chuckling now, but Tommy senses that Alfie Solomons is chipping away at his guard. 

And it feels good. _Shit_. He downs his whisky, takes a deep breath and closes the meeting. He finds that he is forcing himself to think of Grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music gives me the energy and inspiration to read and write fic...Here's some tunes that fit the tone of this chapter.  
> Cry To Me - Idles To me, this song basically sounds like Alfie's siren call to Tommy in response to Grace dumping him...  
> Black and White Town - Doves  
> Impossible Tracks - The Kills


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie finds out that Tommy has plans to attend the horse auction, and explains to Tommy why he needs Alfie's help to do so...

Alfie is hosting a rare meeting in his office. The meeting must be brief because John and Michael are waiting outside. Alfie had insisted on lunch first though, fish stew with a helping of bread. “Bread is top class”, Tommy compliments Alfie. 

“Right enough it is, and don’t worry Tommy, no goat in that stew, so you can sing your praises about that an’ all.” Alfie deadpans, but it’s clear he’s pleased. Onto business. There is discussion firstly of a new market opening in America, following the development of their contacts at the docks, and then the successful renewal of the Shelby license. But there is also the Sabini problem. Alfie Solomons is still prone to the odd tirade when he’s worried. 

“…well, you Shelbys reckon he ain’t a problem now, but let me tell you, he’s a pesky fucking weed that’s re-growing his little rotten, shitty shoots every day. Growing in my back garden. There’s _resentment_ , right, from those Sabini bookies we put out of work and resentment from those police officers who ain’t getting those nice little wads of Sabini cash anymore. And resentment, Tommy, my dear, is fucking fertilizer for that weed as he plots how to use those men to get back what he lost.” 

“I do reckon Sabini’s a problem. Be assured that I take this seriously.”

Alfie sits up carefully in his chair, regaining his composure after his outburst. He raises his hand, starts to point his finger at Tommy, then thinks better of it and runs his hands through his beard.

“I know that, mate. I am fully on board with what we’ve already agreed to do. But you know I can’t let you put our plans to sort this on the back boiler while you get distracted by some other fancy scheme. So, I am _reminding_ you that I can feel these fuckers knocking at my door. And that means at your door, too.”

“Alfie, we’ve agreed we’re going to solidify our alliances with key figures in the racing industry. As we expand from the business we get from their deals, we create those jobs for men with those resentments, jobs which also include dealing with the men who are still…resentful.”

“Those deals have got to be in place within the next month, unless you fancy a go at firefighting the blast from whatever grenade that Sabini chucks at us”.

Alfie likes to throw in the odd grenade reference into their conversations now and then. Both in grudging acknowledgement of how Tommy had bested him to secure the agreeable partnership that they have now, and as a warning that Tommy needs more tricks up his sleeve, Tommy thinks. 

“…Because my friend,” Alfie continues, “I cannot be arsed to have this on my plate anymore. This mucky work with Sabini requires men and time that we need for business, business we will no longer have if we let him carry on.” He leans forward and peers at Tommy. “I suppose you’ve got your eye on that _exclusive_ horse auction event coming up in that place, the one outside Marlborough.”

Tommy hesitates. Alfie’s eyes sparkle, and he starts to smile slightly, knowing he’s guessed right, knowing that Tommy had planned to keep this excursion to himself. They can second guess each other’s plans now, and one frequently calls out the other. Each time the mind-reading happens, Tommy can feel them both drop their guard for a split second to stare at each other in unspoken recognition of this connection between them that keeps growing. Tommy is unnerved that these moments too somehow remind him of Grace. _Stop smiling at me in that way you do, you smug bastard_. “Yes, Alfie. You got me there”, he admits, and breaks eye contact first. 

Alfie’s voice softens as if to sugar-coat the frank message that follows, but he continues to watch Tommy. “I knew it. You think you’re going to crack this one cos you once bought some filly in Doncaster?” he murmurs, “What part of _exclusive_ don’t you understand, Tommy? It’s invitation only, I know the toffs running this one. This ain’t an open auction, right, it’s a one-off to coax the old money folk out to pay through the nose for those best thoroughbreds. They wanna showcase the business, make it look posher cos they know that scumbags like us are widening our reach. You think you can strut in there with the rest of your gypsy boys?” He sounds resigned. “You won’t get a second look in, they won’t even let you in the fucking door. Not even your fancy horse lady can get you an invitation. A waste of a long drive, all because you _want_ a horse.”

Tommy takes a deep breath. He chides himself for his naivety in thinking that he might secure an invitation to this event without much hassle. Alfie has read him. He attempts to conceal his frustration. 

“We can’t make those alliances, without getting into those inner circles and building their trust. I’m doing my bit here, I’m willing to invest my capital on a better horse to get in there and benefit our shared interests. Care to offer a plan of your own? You say you know these organisers.”

Alfie sighs. He stares up at the ceiling for a while, then leans further still across the desk towards Tommy, arms outstretched with his elbows on the table. Tommy senses his mood lift as he reaches a decision. “Alright. Alright… I will call in a favour with the posh twat I know, Miles _Hartington_ ”, Alfie elongates the vowels in the surname mockingly, in a faux-posh voice. “He owes me for some risky exports I arranged for him some time back, wanker was running scared at the thought of shifting product off-books and was desperate enough to approach me. He’s influential enough to get us in and make it clear to the organisers that we have a place in the proceedings. As long as he keeps his cool…he’s a good boy, knows what’ll happen if he doesn’t.” He taps Tommy’s wrist with his fingers. “Satisfied now?”

Tommy’s mouth twitches. Alfie is now in the habit of making these light touches when he wants to make or conclude a point. A pat on his shoulder, a squeeze on his elbow. As if he doesn’t have Tommy’s full attention already. “ _We_?” And yet, Tommy isn’t surprised. 

“Yeah, _we_. What did I say? You’ll stand out even more if you bring your boys. You need me to help get your arse through the door.”

Tommy smirks. “Is that right? A gypsy and a Jew arriving together at an event full of country squires? You’ll draw attention as well.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. 

“Thank you so much Thomas. Glad that you think I am worthy of attention. I’ll wear my best shirt. Nice little drive around the fresh air of the North Wessex Downs should do me good. Ollie’ll hold the fort for a day.” 

Tommy stands up. “Well, that’s that settled then. Good meeting, Alfie.”

Alfie gets up and opens the office door. “Right, ‘til next Tuesday, then, looking forward to seeing you fritter your money away.” He gives Tommy a wink.

_Christ_. “See you next Tuesday, Alfie”, Tommy retorts.

He can still hear Alfie chuckling from the office as he walks out down the corridor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the horse fair. Tommy and Alfie, dressed to kill, charm the powerful guests at the event, and (quietly) charm each other. But there's an unpleasant surprise waiting at the end of a successful day.

Tommy is straightening his tie in front of the mirror, cigarette clenched firmly between his lips, aware that he is being observed by his visiting aunt who is determined to dispense advice before he leaves for the North Wessex Downs. Polly hands him a cup of tea and brushes a piece of lint from his jacket shoulder. “The navy-blue suit, Tommy. Very nice. Brings out your eyes. All this for a horse. Hope she’s worth it”, she remarks. Arthur snorts from behind the paper at the breakfast table. 

Tommy closes his eyes and tries not to rise to the bait. “The horse we get here isn’t going to come fifth or sixth, Pol. And you know there are connections to be made at this event. Old money, and serious new money. Legit money.”

“And a day out with Alfie Solomons, nearer to his turf than ours, without any good men with you. He’s planning something.” Tommy sighs. His family is starting to get twitchy about the good fortune that Alfie is helping to bring to the Shelbys. For them, it’s all too good to be true.

“That’s right,” Arthur chimes in before Tommy has a chance to retort. He’s polishing something with a white cloth. “Take this one.” It’s Arthur’s favourite revolver, the one which he holds to his lips and mutters to before a fight. His face is full of worry.

Tommy takes it. 

\----

The drive from Birmingham to the North Wessex Downs is long, with the traffic busy until the North Wessex Downs come into view. The countryside is beautiful, slowly regaining its colour after the winter, showing the hint of promise that early spring brings. The road is lined on one side with rolling fields, reminding Tommy of his mother’s old stories of family. On the other side, the line of trees thickens. He rolls down the window. The late afternoon air is cold, and Tommy can feel a growing sense of anticipation in his veins.

Alfie has already arrived and is standing at the entrance of the auction house hall and speaking to a nervous and pale-faced man in a tweed suit. “As I was saying, Mr Hartington, what an honour to attend this prestigious event”. Alfie’s deferential tone is tinged with his familiar hint of sarcasm, intangible right now to almost anyone but those who know him well. He straightens up when he sees Tommy approach.

“May I introduce to you my business partner, Thomas Shelby.”

“Mr. Shelby, welcome. Gentleman, the auction will start in an hour. Best of luck.” Hartington nods curtly to them both and moves away swiftly. 

“’Afternoon, Alfie,” says Tommy.

“Tommy.” Alfie nods distractedly at Tommy, looking past him, eyes flitting around to take in the scene of arriving guests. He is wearing a sharp black three-piece suit under his coat, and yes, that could well be his best shirt, it’s brighter and crisper than his usual crumpled effort. He’s trimmed his beard considerably, revealing an angular and strangely youthful-looking face. This place must be quite the place for connections if Alfie Solomons has gone to all this effort, Tommy ponders. 

Alfie claps his hands and gestures towards the bar. “Right, let’s get Tommy Shelby his whisky and see if this shitshow has anything to offer then.” 

The hall is bright and although large, is barely practical enough for displaying livestock. Ornately decorated and full of mahogany panelling, it’s not really an auction hall at all, Tommy thinks. Its main function is clearly an upmarket town hall that is frequented by the local landed gentry who are now filling the space. The floor is teaming with formally dressed waiters holding trays of champagne. Guests are dressed in what looks like their Sunday best, but Tommy knows that these clothes are everyday attire for these people. This is not a horse fair as he knows it. He can feel a few sets of curious eyes on them, and is faintly disappointed to see no May Carleton, although an encounter between her and Alfie would serve only to give Alfie more information about him, which he could do without. 

He and Alfie recognise a couple of members of the local aristocracy and well-connected brokers in the industry. They had bored both the Shelby family and Alfie’s bakers by making them plough through new and archived notices in the society and horseracing magazines to compile cuttings of the pictures and the profiles of the names they planned to target. They approach the men and make their connections. Apart from Hartington and a couple of enterprising brokers with a good nose for money-making, most of these men are aware only of Tommy and Alfie’s official businesses and are too far removed from the city scene to understand the extent of their reputations. They make a surprisingly smooth-talking double act, with Tommy slightly in awe of the charming and measured performance Alfie is rolling out. They fix a couple of meetings and gain enough information to know when the next society charity – read networking - events are happening. ‘We’ll send along your auntie and one of me old Jewish matriarchs to make an impression’, mutters Alfie through his teeth once they’re out of earshot. It’s hard to tell if he’s joking.

Unlike regular horse fairs, the stable hands and farm workers are out of sight of the hall for now, preoccupied with the horses in the stables outside. Tommy and Alfie make their tour of the two dozen or so enclosures. Tommy explains the pedigree of different thoroughbreds to Alfie, points out the filly he has his eye on. Alfie tells him that it’s his money he’s flushing away. Tommy notices a man with a square chin talking intently to a stable hand – he looks familiar. Both stare at them as they pass.

They secure spaces at the front of the viewing gallery, squeezed in closely together as the so-called genteel crowd jostle awkwardly for a decent viewpoint. Tommy scans each of the horses as they file in and out of the hall in turn. He can feel Alfie observing him. At one point, he feels Alfie pat him on the shoulder mockingly. “Don’t worry mate, she’ll be on her way soon.” After what seems an age, his filly finally appears. There’s a soft murmur from the audience when they hear Tommy make his first bid. Tommy shuts out the low chatter from the curious onlookers from his mind, locks down to focus on his goal. He wins the big-name filly, like he knew he would, and earns a gruff “Well done, big spender” in his ear from Alfie.

After Tommy has finished dealing with the paperwork to arrange payment and collection of the horse, they check in with their new contacts and then prepare to leave. Tommy starts to feel uneasy and it seems he’s not the only one. “C’mon Tommy, out of here,” says Alfie. “There’s some ugly mugs hanging about here that I don’t like the look of, feel it in my bones. Could be the cut of their suits…hmm.”

Outside, they make their way towards Tommy’s car and they prepare to call it a day. Tommy stops dead in his tracks. His car tyres have been punctured. Fuck. 

Alfie looks on stony-faced and grips his cane. “My car _now_ , right”, he says moving swiftly towards his car, which is unaffected. 

“Get in, what you fucking waiting for?”, he snarls, as he senses Tommy’s hesitation. Tommy feels his stomach turn. Alfie’s been too quick to react. _He’s planning something_. Pol’s comment from that morning echoes in his mind. His head starts to swim and rattles out its own conclusions… Alfie and Sabini playing the long game, so Tommy Shelby can get played. What the fuck…charmed by hot-headed Alfie Solomons, his so-called fucking partner, so it would come to this. No choice now. There’s no other way out, no-one here from whom he could hitch a lift anonymously, Marlborough is another ten miles away, impossible to get there on foot alone to find a visiting motorist to help him get out.

He gets into car beside Alfie silently, resigned. The handle of Arthur’s gun inside his coat prods his ribs, as to remind him of his choices. Shoot Solomons in the head once they are down the road and out of earshot and crash the car. Or let himself get cornered by Solomons and Sabini’s men; a rather undignified death unless he can shoot one of them on his way out, he thinks grimly.

They’ve been on the road for ten minutes. The roof is down, Alfie not having had time to pull it up in their haste, and the wind is whipping Tommy’s face. He clutches his cap tightly by his side, runs his finger lightly over the razor.

“Fucking say something Tommy,” Alfie calls above the wind, “Where the fuck are we going to go now?” 

“You tell me Alfie, you tell me.” The dead tone in Tommy’s raised voice makes his insinuation clear.

“ _Excuse me_? Did I hear that right? You think I’m fucking _in_ on this?” 

“It’s Sabini isn’t it? Someone got word of where we were going so that he could send some men.” 

“And you think _I_ told him, and that he sent me as bait for you? Like he would send me on a fucking errand, and I would go on his bidding, like some kind of fucking honeytrap, yeah?” Alfie is yelling now, spittle coming from his mouth, and the car swerves slightly as he turns to Tommy in fury. He gathers himself, and glances behind him. Tommy breathes in and out slowly, to steady himself, shaken from Alfie’s outburst, and to prepare himself for whatever is to come.

“Behind us,” Alfie grits his teeth, eyes now fixed on the road. “Two of Sabini’s cars, they’re catching up on us.” A grey Bentley is gathering speed behind them, closely followed by a black one.

This is the moment, Tommy thinks. I will find out if this man is with me, or if the last two minutes have been blustering to derail me from what he’s up to. He gets his answer quickly; the man in the passenger seat in the car behind leans out, aims his revolver confidently at them, and shoots, barely missing Alfie’s head. _Christ!_ Tommy pulls out Arthur’s revolver, and shoots towards the driver. The shot hits the man right in the neck, he slumps in his seat and Tommy sees the passenger grab the wheel in a panic, as the car skids erratically and the tyres screech with the effort of a sudden brake. Tommy hears the loud hiss of an engine as their pursuers grind to a halt, and another screech as the second car brakes suddenly to avoid crashing into the first. 

Alfie turns a corner. “We’ve lost them – for now”. They continue the journey in silence, watchful, the immediate threat hanging over them as well as their argument. A few miles later, they approach a crossroads. One of the roads leads to Marlborough. They’ll be like sitting ducks in such a small town filled with crawling traffic and plenty of bystanders. They glance the road sign for Marlborough, then at each other in unspoken consensus. 

\- _Not there._  
\- _Yeah, not there._

Other roads and dirt-tracks follow the lines of the main road and open fields, and one leads into the forest. They nod to each other, and Alfie stops the engine abruptly. Wordlessly, they get out of the car and leave it in a lay-by beside the crossroads. They head into Savernake Forest. Alfie’s face is grim. Tommy can see he’s contemplating how the walk to god-knows-where is going to hit his legs, and the cane is unsteady on the rough ground of forest estate. “I’m fine” Alfie says curtly, not looking at Tommy, and strides with purpose to make his point. They walk through the forest, staying close to the undergrowth, mostly without saying a word, for about half an hour, when the sky darkens. The light rain starts. 

“All this for the horse of Tommy Shelby’s dreams”, Alfie mutters. “You know, one of the posh twats at that auction, Marquess of Ailesbury - a right old fascist actually, that one – he owns this forest. Would he like to send one of his mediocre horses to pick up this Jew and this gypsy right now, I wonder.”

“The man in the beige tweeds? He didn’t know what he was bidding for, didn’t much care, mind. Just there for the show, that one—" 

“Ssh.” Alfie touches Tommy’s arm lightly to stop him in his tracks. “You hear that?” Alfie must have sharp hearing, for Tommy can barely make out the voices in the distance. 

It’s them. 

Tommy and Alfie leave the path and walk further into the undergrowth, and the ground turns into a slope, leading them into a long ditch. 

“Down here.” Alfie lets Tommy steady him as they begin the descent down. The bottom of the wide ditch is covered with thick, tangled, tall bushes and surrounded by towering oak trees. The light rain grows heavier and they climb right into the thickest part of bushes until they are sheltered from the worst of the downpour and hidden from view. Alfie sits down gingerly beside Tommy on the forest floor, wincing as he bends his bad knee to find room in the dark, cramped space.

The voices grow louder, and the downpour becomes deafening. Their pursuers aren’t subtle though, calling at each other in a mixture of English and Italian. They are deterred by the relentlessness of the rain and are arguing about how long they should keep searching. Tommy and Alfie, themselves used to inhabiting the role of hunter, remain on their guard. It’s when you stop talking and start creeping that you find your prey. Alfie has produced his own pistol from his inside his coat pocket; they wait there, silent and poised, weapons at the ready, pressed in together. Suddenly, visions of endless tunnels appear in Tommy’s head. Alfie’s shoulder is pressed against his own, moving up and down to the rhythm of Alfie’s steady breathing. Tommy lets himself feel each breath and the warmth of his companion’s body, until he is synching his own breathing with that of Alfie’s, helping his thoughts return fully to the present. He glances at Alfie who is staring silently at the mass of thicket thorns that surround them, jaw tight, grey eyes blank, raindrops dripping off the brim of his hat and his beard. He smells of wet wool and the sweet faint tang of beard oil. 

The downpour abates, but the rain falls steadily. 

They remain in their spot for another hour or so, long after the voices have disappeared.

Alfie raises himself off the ground shakily and looks at the sky. The daylight is fading quickly, and night will soon set in. “No chance we’ll make it to Marlborough, I reckon they’ve gone back in that direction, no doubt to finish off my car.”

They find another path that takes them deeper into Savernake Forest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Alfie seek refuge in a groundskeeper's cottage in the Savernake Forest.

The rain has soaked through their heavy coats, suits and hats, all the way to their skin. Tommy’s hands, face and feet are completely numb. The loss of physical feeling offers an odd but welcome feeling of detachment from his current predicament; it’s the same feeling that would wash over him in the tunnels, allowing him to keep moving. Alfie is breathing heavily, moving shakily but determinedly. Although fatigued, he maintains his usual grim and wide-eyed watchfulness. He walks with care, keeping a few paces behind Tommy. Tommy senses he is still mulling over their argument in the car. 

Eventually they spot a dim light through the trees which leads them to a small groundskeeper’s cottage in a clearing. Despite the hour and the weather, a plump piebald pony and a couple of chickens are still grazing in a small paddock beside the cottage. Bet you ten bob he bought that pony off a gypsy, thinks Tommy.

Alfie knocks. “Here’s hoping the groundskeeper’s not fucking Baba Yaga”, he murmurs.

The door creaks open slowly, and an older, stout man peers out. He’s not used to visitors and is holding a rifle tightly in his hand. 

Alfie takes off his sodden hat. “Good evening, sir…We’re in a bit of bother mate, we need a bed for the night.” 

The groundskeeper takes in the sight of the two exhausted companions, both dripping wet, the bearded man in black, and clean-shaven man in the cap. He sticks his head out the door and looks around, before giving them a quick nod opening the door fully to let them in. He peers at Tommy as he passes him. 

Once inside, the old man gestures to some rickety wooden chairs at a table beside a burning stove. The three men sit down, and the groundskeeper holds out his hand to Tommy, the rifle still at his side. “Bertie Felton. Adusta salla jan tutti” he says to Tommy, who returns his handshake in bemusement.

“Thomas Shelby. You speak Romani?” 

“I learned some from my friends. I know the name Shelby”. 

Alfie watches this exchange with interest. “I wonder what circles you move in, Mr. Felton. Alfie Solomons.” He holds out his hand.

“I know London too, Mr. Solomons.” Bertie replies pointedly, shaking his hand. “I meet a lot of these gentry folks in this work, all friends and associates of the Marquess. And sometimes they too bring their friends from the city and their staff to the estate too. It’s part of the Marquess’ welcome that I accompany any visitors around this forest, you see. Posh ones are a talkative bunch amongst themselves when they think no one is paying attention, the workers like to spin a few tales. I don’t ask questions though, don’t say nothing much back neither.” 

He pauses for breath, as if not used to talking at length and looks at them in turn to make his position clear. “But there were some men who passed here earlier. I sent them on their way, I’ve no interest in people brandishing loaded guns at me. But I had this -” he taps his rifle – “at hand as I had a suspicion I would receive more visitors. So here we are.”

“We’re sorry to inconvenience you Mr, Felton, just grateful for a bed for the night,”, Alfie holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture so that Bertie might put his rifle away. “We’re most indebted to you.” Tommy thinks he has never seen Alfie so sincere – and humble. Well. 

“It’s past ten o’clock, I’ve not much left to offer except a bit of broth.”

“Thank you,” they chime.

Tommy and Alfie take some soup and bread and warm their hands upon mugs of tea in contemplative silence, breaking it only when Alfie asks Bertie about the imported goods lining the shelves on the stony walls of the kitchen. Bottles of Spanish wine, olive oil, capers, sundried tomatoes, all presents from the Continent gifted to the Marquess and his family, discarded and passed on to Bertie. “You’re welcome to some of it, it’s all very nice but I’ve no use for most of it and the Marquess certainly doesn’t appreciate it.” They politely swap stories with Bertie about whisky and rum, the best places in Birmingham and London to source dry cured meat and cheeses. Tommy can tell the old man is enjoying a break from his usual solitude. He bites his lip as Alfie starts to ramble about the art of making fresh bread from his ‘bakery’. Bertie packs a bag of bottles and jars from the shelf into a string bag and hands it to Alfie.

They hang their wet hats, coats, suit jackets, waistcoats, ties, braces and socks on a clothes pulley above the small stove. Its glowing embers warm the stone-walled cottage, but it’s a cold night. It’s going to take a long time for all that to dry, thinks Tommy. He can feel himself shivering and the stone floor feels like ice on his bare feet. Bertie notices. “Lad, your shirt will need to go on too. Let me get you a blanket.” The old man is reminding Tommy of his grandma now, the one on his mother’s side, and he is about to protest but thinks better of it. He thinks he sees the smallest hint of a smirk appear on Alfie’s lips. He stares at Alfie defiantly and starts to unbutton his wet shirt. In an instant, Alfie’s smirk is gone. He swallows as he watches Tommy peel off to reveal his undervest, and toned biceps, still damp. His eyes flicker down the length of Tommy’s body before they fall upon the holster of Arthur’s gun that’s tucked into Tommy’s trousers.

“Taking no chances there, Tommy” he murmurs, and looks away, fidgety.

“Nope”, whispers Tommy between gritted teeth as he takes the grey army-issue blanket that Bertie has laid on the back of the chair. Bertie holds out another blanket to Alfie questioningly. 

“Yes please, Bertie”. Alfie glances at Tommy and starts to undress. Tommy feels unexpectedly disarmed, as if Alfie Solomons has taken his gun away. Not gonna fucking look at this, he tells himself, and turns away from Alfie, but he can still see the man’s muscular frame moving in his peripheral vision. Builds those arms and that chest in the boxing gym …while he thinks about how he will destroy his enemies, Tommy muses. As do I. There’s suddenly an image of Alfie’s naked torso in his mind, pecs shiny with sweat and blood, nipples hard. He shakes himself out of those thoughts. _What the fuck is happening to me_. 

He gets up and fumbles around his drying coat for cigarettes, to find the packet is soaked through. He places a couple of the soggy cigarettes on top of the stove in the hope that he might have something to smoke by the morning. Luckily his leather wallet and all the notes in it are mainly intact. He will need to pay Bertie handsomely in recognition of his hospitality. 

“Cigarette courtesy of Bertie?” Tommy turns around to see that Alfie, seated back at the table, all bare arms and hulking shoulders, is holding out an unlit roll-up and rattling a box of matches. Tommy sits back down slowly in the chair beside him, takes the cigarette, puts it in his mouth and leans forward to let Alfie to light it for him. The first draw of the roll-up stabilises him enough in the face of Alfie’s now unsmiling, pensive gaze. He exhales slowly. 

“Much appreciated Bertie,” he calls to the groundskeeper, who is on his way to a neighbouring room with an armload of bedding. Conscious of the efforts the hospitable groundskeeper is making, Tommy gets up and follows him into the room, not before retrieving his coat that holds his wallet and hipflask of whisky.

“There’s just this room, the paddock barn has rot and the rain keeps getting in, so for now the other spare is storing much of the equipment, and well, the pony.” Bertie says shortly. Tommy smiles slightly at the thought of the pony in the next room. “Well, I’ll be turning in,” Bertie says. “We’ll look tomorrow at getting the estate hands to drive you to wherever you’re going, distance permitting, mind”. Tommy nods his thanks as Bertie leaves. 

The small room is drab and sparsely furnished with bare whitewashed walls. A large bed covered with a faded floral quilt and more of the army issue blankets, a scratched mirror and single chair are the only furniture in the room. Bertie has lit a couple of small oil lamps which cast a warm glow around the otherwise austere room and left a jug of water and a couple of glasses on a tray beside the chair. What a host.

Tommy puts his coat around the chair and sits down heavily. He inhales what’s left of the cigarette, but before he can start to process the events of the day, Alfie appears at the doorway. He’s clutching his string bag. Like he’s just returned home from a groceries errand, Tommy thinks distractedly.

“Well.” Alfie closes the door and sits himself on the bed opposite Tommy and plonks his bag down beside the bed.

“Well...” 

“This filly better fucking win after all of this.” 

“Right enough.” 

“Gimme a bit of that.” Alfie takes the stub of the cigarette dangling between Tommy’s lips, takes a deep draw, places it back into Tommy’s hand, their fingertips touching.  
There’s silence as Tommy bends down to stub out the cigarette on the tray. Then Alfie speaks.

“You thought I was about to hand you over to Sabini today, you paranoid bastard.”

“Yeah.”

“If I was in that frame of mind, I’d have got rid of you myself, right.” 

“You have form for those tricks, Alfie.”

“And you don’t? Billy fucking Kimber.”

“I’ve always kept my word on my deals with you.” 

“So, you think I’ve been playing fucking games here, just arsing about for the last few months for the fun of it?”

“You never take anything for granted in our world, you know that.” 

“I don’t take anything for granted, indeed not.” Alfie mutters darkly. He sighs suddenly. “Right, that was at once a most enlightening and very tiresome conversation, Tommy Shelby.” He rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, the other hand tapping the side of the bed lightly. Tommy takes in the sight of the normally sharp-tongued and alert crime boss, now a tired, if strangely irritated and restless figure. For a few minutes, neither speak. Both men sit with their heads bowed. Tommy, often one to relish silence to put his adversaries on the back foot, can’t stand the tension.

“Whisky?” He retrieves the hipflask from his coat and pours a dram into one of the water glasses. The sound of the whisky hitting the glass is the only sound in the room. 

Alfie looks up. “Why do you think I never touch the booze, Tommy?”

“You’ll go mad and floor all your bakers at once. Bad for employee retention”. 

Alfie gives Tommy a hard stare. “Fuck off. I’m not an actual alcoholic. That’s not my weakness -” Alfie cuts himself off at this word and bites his lip, swallows again. Straightaway, Tommy feels his heartrate start to increase. He takes a sip from his dram. 

Alfie breathes deeply before continuing and looks Tommy right in the eye. “But drink will make any man shed his inhibitions without thinking through the consequences. And that’s bad for business…for business partnerships.” 

“Neither of us have got to where we are in life without shedding some inhibitions. Taking a few risks. No?” Tommy can feel himself taking a very big risk now, in taking this line of questioning, and yet, he feels compelled to ask. 

“My point, right, is you got to act upon what your head tells you, not some spur-of-the-fucking-moment feeling or want.” 

“The booze makes you do…what you want?” Tommy hears himself ask. 

“The booze makes me sentimental. Reminds me what I want.” Alfie’s eyes are glassy with an unreadable look that could be wistfulness or bitterness, Tommy can’t tell. 

Tommy finds himself reaching for the other glass. He pours a dram and hands it to Alfie, who pauses, then accepts it. He raises his glass to Alfie’s, and they drink the drams in silence, while Alfie watches him, eyes now narrowed, trying to decipher him. Tommy is now refilling the glasses - _you’re not thinking this one through Shelby_ \- and they sip slower this time, each of them steeling themselves for whatever is to come. There’s a couple of minutes of silence before Tommy speaks.

“What do you want?” His question comes out in a shaky whisper. God, he thinks. Is this what Tommy Shelby sounds like as he starts to shed his real inhibitions? 

“I remember the first time you asked me that, all those months ago.” Alfie pauses. “And now…” He leans forward at the edge of the bed; his voice is strained. “Do I have to spell it out, Tommy?” 

Tommy can feel his breath quicken. He is suddenly conscious of a tension that he has been carrying for a very long time, like a weight on his back. An urgent need to be rid of it takes over from all other rational thoughts of self-preservation. He stands up slowly. 

“Show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter might take a while, er. (each chapter seems to be more of a challenge than the last...)
> 
> No idea what Savernake Forest is like now, but pre WW2 I imagine it was magical, Midsummer Night's Dream style..how romantic. https://www.google.com/search?q=savernake+forest&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwis5cPSqIfgAhWN5KQKHSbKBhwQ_AUIDygC&biw=1280&bih=579
> 
> I feel sorry for Bertie for having to work for a fascist. The Marquiss really was a fascist... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Brudenell-Bruce,_6th_Marquess_of_Ailesbury Everyone in that family who inherited the MofA title also inherited guardianship of Savernake Forest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Alfie find themselves in a power struggle... of sorts.

_Show me_. Tommy’s words have breached an unspoken boundary they have both been stepping around for the last six months. 

Alfie raises his head to look at Tommy standing above him. He stares at Tommy, transfixed. A flash of what appears to be suspicion crosses his face for an instant, then vanishes. 

He stands up and moves into Tommy’s space and places his hands upon his face. He runs his fingers down his cheekbones, stopping when they reach either side of his mouth. A fingertip brushes against Tommy’s lips, and rests there, waiting for an invitation. Tommy opens his lips very slightly. He lets Alfie feel the wetness of the underside of his lower lip, and then the very tip of his tongue. The saltiness of Alfie’s fingertip is like a fucking appetiser. He closes his eyes for a second to taste it. 

Alfie moves in closer and leans his forehead against Tommy’s, a stale sweetness to his breath from the whisky and cigarette. He trails his fingers down from Tommy’s mouth, down his chin, neck and chest until his hands settle on Tommy’s hips. Tommy places his hands upon Alfie’s upper arms and prepares to take this step into the unknown.

Alfie lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“There once was a man who promised me he’d blow my world apart, he looked right at me with these ridiculous eyes he had,” he says, voice lilting. He pushes his forehead hard against Tommy’s. “And you know, for a moment, I thought he really meant it, I was very fucking excited, high as a kite I tell you, knowing that he might bring me to my death, bring me one step closer to answering for all my _abominations_.”

He kisses Tommy slowly and gently on each corner of his mouth, as if in thanks. 

“Imagine my disappointment to find out he had no explosives in place, that he was leading me on a merry dance for his own boring ends.” 

He draws his head back. His fingers on Tommy’s hips tighten their grip. “Am I being led on a dance now, hmm?” His expression hardens. 

They are now balancing on a knife-edge. Tommy realises that he is at risk of having shed his longest-held inhibition for nothing but one of Alfie’s oblique, but very real, threats. He stares back, unblinking, at the man who sold him out not long ago, who is now asking _him_ to prove his trustworthiness. 

_No, you don’t get to do this, Alfie._

“Now who’s the paranoid bastard?” Tommy asks softly. 

He feels Alfie tense at this retort. “If I find out you are playing me—" 

“What difference would it make to you right now, Alfie?” Tommy leans his forehead back upon Alfie’s. He takes his face in both hands and strokes his beard with his thumbs. Alfie’s brow is furrowed, his jaw clenched. He’s riled by Tommy’s challenge. 

Their lips are now millimetres apart. Tommy waits. His heart thuds in his ears. He remembers just how volatile Alfie can still be. 

Then Alfie leans in and kisses Tommy. 

The kiss is brief, but deep, his lips full and soft, and when he pulls away, Tommy can still feel the brush of his moustache on his upper lip. 

_“Alfie…”_ Tommy breathes. So long since he has been kissed. No one has got near since Grace. Alfie doesn’t understand what that fucking means. He grips Alfie’s face tighter.

Alfie just looks at him, chest heaving. The heat from the oil lamps seems to fill the air.

And then, Alfie returns to him, pushing his mouth against Tommy’s with a growl. He pulls Tommy close. The kisses come firm and hungry and they taste so good; this is six months’ worth of want that Tommy can taste, and he grasps Alfie’s head and pulls at the roots of his hair as he digs his fingers into his scalp. Dazed by the realisation that Alfie really does want him, he moans when Alfie’s lips gently prise his mouth open wider, deepening their kiss. He finds Alfie’s tongue, pushes against it hard with his own, lets Alfie know he wants him too. He is now kissing Alfie so forcefully he feels like he’s suffocating them both, but his desperation for more contact seems to supersede his need to breathe. They’re pressed tight together, and Tommy becomes giddy as feels his arousal build, its heat running through his limbs and straight to his cock, which strains against his trousers and against Alfie, who is also rock hard.

It’s Alfie who pulls back for breath, panting. His eyes are dark, hair ruffled, his face flushed, and his lips swollen with kisses… _fucking gorgeous_. Tommy can’t believe what he’s seeing as he struggles to focus and take in the sight of him.

Alfie runs a finger along Tommy’s jaw. “What _difference_ does it make to me,” he says, still catching his breath. “You think you know what it means to have power over someone. But do you know how it should _feel_?” He kisses breathily along Tommy’s jawline, works his way up to his ear and licks and nips at his earlobe. “Like you’re _consuming_ everything they have to fucking give you.” Tommy feels himself shiver under his lips. “Consuming their body,” - Tommy lets out a shaky breath – “Consuming their _mind_ , Tommy my darling.” His lips stop on Tommy’s cheek and rest there. 

Tommy starts to unravel at his words. He musters up what little resistance he has left to offer a response. 

“And the best thing is, they accept it. Then they _want_ you to do it.”

“ _Tommy_...”

They stare at each other for a moment before their mouths crash together. The kisses become messier and more urgent; each caress becomes rougher in this new struggle for power. They pull off each other’s vests and shaking hands tug at each other’s trousers, which are then discarded – Tommy’s gun falling and rattling across the floor - as they battle to be the first to see the other naked and exposed, the first to feel and smell the other’s warm skin. 

“ _Off_ ”, Alfie tugs at Tommy’s underwear, eyes fixed on Tommy’s clothed erection. As he fumbles around, Tommy pushes his hands around the back of Alfie’s waistband and pulls Alfie’s underwear down completely, running his hands over his arse. As he catches sight of Alfie’s bare cock for the first time, his head spins, the battles from a moment ago forgotten, because _oh god_ he is going to get to have this, and then before he knows it, Alfie has got him naked too and is pushing him backwards until he’s flat on his back on the bed. 

Alfie crawls on top of him. Tommy looks up at the bearded, muscled man towering over him, who has now started to lower himself almost flat against him, with a care that appears to bely the ferocity of their embraces up until now, as if seeking… _closeness_? Tommy wonders if this is one of Alfie’s power plays and finds himself conflicted by his urge to reciprocate. Nevertheless, he runs his hands down Alfie’s back and pulls him down by his arse, so he can feel Alfie’s skin pressed against his own. Alfie kisses and sucks at his collarbone, and then back to his neck, cheek, and ear again, the heads of their cocks bumping against each other to the rhythm of his caresses. The contact is fleeting, but Tommy breathes in sharply in surprise at the sensation of the occasional friction it brings, and then again at a feeling of sudden wetness on him which he realises is from the mingling of pre-come from them both. He catches Alfie’s eye, and right away he just knows that Alfie knows.

“This is _new_ to you? Well I never…” Alfie, intrigued at this discovery, stops moving and lifts himself up to reassess Tommy, and looks him up and down as he did at the dinner table, except this time unashamedly and with a fresh hunger in his eyes. 

Tommy, unsurprised at this reaction, still observes Alfie with trepidation. He senses that it’s time to make a move. He needs to distract Alfie from wondering just how vulnerable he might be feeling right now. Time to use this moment to his advantage, to let Alfie know what he’s expecting of him. He feels around for one of the pillows and places it under the small of his back and his arse to raise himself up, then lets his knees fall back slowly to completely expose himself for Alfie. 

“You heard me before. I did say show me. Show me what you got.” His words tumble out, but he’s holding his nerve here as he would when setting any other kind of terms of engagement. He knows this is a bold move. He also knows he looks fucking good. 

The tactic works. Alfie’s jaw drops a fraction, paralysed for a moment by his own desire as he leans back to admire Tommy, all of him, as if overcome with the possibilities presented to him. He runs his tongue along his lip. Then he smiles. He clambers off Tommy and reaches down over the side of the bed and rummages around the string bag of bottles and jars. Tommy sits up. What the fuck.

Alfie returns with a bottle of olive oil and unscrews the lid. 

“Are you fucking joking me?” Tommy whispers, incredulous.

“Nah, wrong way round, see, you should be _thanking_ me,” Alfie says hoarsely, his voice broken and his mind already on what’s about to happen next. When he sees Tommy raise his eyebrows, but then nod in acquiescence, he takes Tommy by the waist and attempts to turn him over. Tommy seizes his wrist to stop him. He might be new to this, but that’s not the particular route he wants to go down.

There is a brief battle in another exchange of looks.

\- _No?_  
\- _Not like that._

Tommy eases himself back down, resuming his position on his back. _Where I can see you, you bastard._

Alfie nods, as if acknowledging Tommy’s thoughts. He pushes Tommy’s knees back. He dips down and kisses Tommy again, and Tommy knows it’s a ploy to get him to calm the fuck down to ready him for what he wants to do to him now, and yet he feels himself fully relax again, as each embrace rebuilds their connection. He wraps his legs around Alfie’s waist. However, he can hear Alfie fiddling with the bottle, and when a fruity, earthy aroma is released into the air, Tommy breaks off their kiss to snort quietly in amusement. Of all the unpredictable turns his day has taken so far, this is the one he could have least foreseen. 

“Yeah, it’s very fucking funny”, Alfie purrs. He takes an oily finger, runs it down Tommy’s perineum and then circles his arsehole slowly with the oil, humming in satisfaction when he sees that Tommy is no longer smirking. Tommy’s eyes flutter closed, and he gives in to the gentle pleasure that the firm, slow movement brings, all tension ebbing away from his body. So much for keeping his eye on Alfie. He feels the warmth of Alfie’s breath tickle his chest as he moves closer, and he knows that when Alfie breaks off their kisses, it’s to look at him him to gauge his reaction to his touches. Then Alfie slides a finger into Tommy, holds it there before moving it around to get him used to this new feeling, and Tommy almost smiles in disbelief at how the most unpredictable gangster in England is being so cautious with him. So, when Alfie breathes an inquisitive “Hmm?” after a considerable amount of time, Tommy nods, because he wants Alfie Solomons to show him what else he’s got. 

Tommy feels the finger withdraw, he feels Alfie’s fingers stroke him with more oil and then he hears Alfie exhale, as something else, hot, smooth and slippery slides against his arsehole and starts to push into him, spreading a dull, burning sensation. Tommy lets out a long, low groan, for the feeling is unlike anything he could have imagined. Yet, as he surrenders to the initial discomfort it brings while Alfie kisses him through it, it gradually transforms into something else; a curious warmth that spreads through him, gripping and immobilising him. 

After a while, he opens his eyes to look at Alfie whose attention is focused downwards as he eases into Tommy, painstakingly slowly. Alfie becomes aware that Tommy is watching him and he looks up. The concentration on his face dissolves, and he gazes at Tommy with such a tenderness that for a moment Tommy doesn’t recognise him. Tommy stares back in awe. He grasps Alfie’s head and feels himself opening further, to let Alfie in deeper. 

Alfie gasps when he eventually fills Tommy, and he lets his eyes fall shut to savour the feeling of his first full thrusts. He starts to move slowly, but after a while he’s developed a steady rhythm. His eyes then flicker up and down Tommy’s body for an instant before pausing then adjusting his angle. The change is slight, but the following thrusts introduce Tommy to a delicious, soft pleasure that penetrates the whole of his core. It’s that feeling that’s always been out of reach to him, but one which is now working its way through his limbs and – _fuck_ \- why has he never known this part of himself before, because right now, Alfie knows his body better than he does. 

Satisfied that he’s now got Tommy where he wants him, Alfie increases his pace. He starts to grunt with exertion, and beads of moisture are forming around his chest, back and arms with the effort, releasing with them the musky, peppery smell of his sweat. Tommy slides his hands over every piece of damp skin he can reach, buries his face in the nape of Alfie’s neck, driven by a need to inhale and taste him…to consume him.

But it’s Alfie who _has_ Tommy; he has his body, pliant yet immobile; he’s the one deciding what Tommy feels and when he’s feeling it. His elbows rest either side of Tommy’s shoulders, boxing him in, and his eyes are tight shut and his teeth gritted. He’s now completely absorbed in his own pleasure, driven by the demands of his own body. Tommy groans as the pressure in his centre mounts, and he knows that at this rate he won’t be able to last for very long before having to beg Alfie to release him. Any coherent thoughts he had are slipping away…but one persists: that despite having asked Alfie to show him what he can do, what else is Alfie getting from this very fucking literal power dynamic? _What do you really want, Alfie?_ That old question again. 

With a grunt, Tommy summons up the willpower to resist giving in to Alfie. Without breaking Alfie’s rhythm, he shifts himself slightly then grasps the sides of Alfie’s arse to create a resistance against the speed of his thrusts, slowing him so that Alfie’s cock ceases to hit his prostate with such intensity. Alfie glances at Tommy, unnerved; his rocking hips instinctively struggle against the change in pace, but his resistance is in vain. Tommy, open-mouthed and panting, tightens his grip and looks Alfie in the eye with a smile. He’s making it clear he won’t yield, and that he is now holding back…so what is Alfie going to do now? 

Alfie stares back, desperate. Time to test him. Tommy releases his hands, and _christ_ , Alfie has relented. His body is now moving according to Tommy’s instructions, and the effort is torturing him. He bites down hard on his lip, head bowed but aware of Tommy’s stare that’s holding him hostage. Tommy can feel that the heat and tightness of his body is threatening to pull Alfie in further, faster. Alfie is struggling, and he’s beautiful, all shining eyes and sweating, writhing torso, and he’s doing all this because Tommy’s body now _has_ him…The bliss of holding back, of making Alfie hold back, feels like no other connection Tommy has ever known. 

Finally, Tommy releases his breath, moaning softly, allowing himself to slip, to feel more of Alfie in him, as it becomes increasingly difficult to hold his nerve. His sounds drive Alfie frantic and he lets out a whine in response, betraying the strain of maintaining the rhythm that has been imposed upon him. 

It’s at that moment Tommy hears him say it. It’s barely audible above their sounds and the creaking old bed, but he knows he’s not mistaken: 

“ _Please_ ”. 

“Mm...” Tommy murmurs his assent. Alfie groans in relief, waiting for no further cue and he begins to move forcefully, relishing the feeling of being liberated. His movements hit that sweet spot once more, bringing to the surface the fuzzy, tingling feeling that has been building insistently in Tommy’s core. Tommy can’t go on like this. 

_“Alfie…”_ With one word, Tommy lets Alfie take him over again. Alfie growls, glad that he can finally touch Tommy, and takes him in hand. The pleasure and energy that has been building up in Tommy’s body all this time is now being channelled through his cock, and the combination of Alfie’s stroking, and the now erratic rhythm of his thrusting is overwhelming. Alfie is moaning with urgency now, and Tommy joins him, hearing himself calling out for release. 

The call sends Alfie into oblivion; his body tenses and then he comes with a cry, slamming into Tommy, his body pulsating as his pent-up desire - denied for so long – spills into Tommy. The force of his heat and his cries fill Tommy and he comes, shuddering as the orgasm rushes through him, completely consuming him. 

A feeling of ecstasy washes over him, leaving him floating. Alfie’s voice echoes in his ears.

Alfie collapses on top of Tommy, his legs quivering. He raises his head to look at him, mesmerized for an instant, then pulls out of him carefully. He rolls back onto the rumpled sheets that are now damp from sweat, oil and come, landing on his back with a thump. Tommy lies on his back, panting. His whole body is shaking, but he can feel the vibrations coming from Alfie’s side of the bed and realises that Alfie is too. 

Alfie musters up the energy he has left to slide closer towards him and Tommy feels his hot breath in his ear. 

“Now do you know what power feels like?” Alfie’s voice is trembling. 

Tommy’s head swims at the sound of Alfie’s confession. The rush of blood to his head takes him back to that first moment of their partnership; the spit and handshakes, then every single fucking interaction they have had since then, all flashing before him. All leading to this. 

He leans into Alfie’s damp forehead and tries to answer, but nothing comes out. 

“Do you?” he whispers. The last barrier of his self-preservation has been broken down. 

For once, words escape Alfie too. He presses his lips into Tommy’s cheek, before falling away, exhausted, and they both let sleep drag them under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of chapters left to go after this one, not sure how many. For anyone who's interested in music to write to or read to, the following tracks helped me develop the mood/atmosphere of this chapter:  
> Rider to the Sea (Live) - Anna Calvi  
> Savage Love - Death in Vegas  
> Scorpio Rising - Death in Vegas  
> I Can't Control Myself - Horrors  
> Every1's A Winner - Ty Segall


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is conflicted about the present, and casts his mind back to the past.

For the first time in a long while, it isn’t the never-ending tunnels and boom of detonations in his head that force Tommy awake. It’s a bladder full of whisky and tea that rouses him, urging him to relieve himself. There’s also a warm, tingling sensation in his arse, an unfamiliar and yet not unpleasant feeling. 

The darkness in the room that greets him is disorientating, for he has no idea what time it is. The forest envelopes the cottage, buffering the room from all sound, but for a soft pattering of rain. The shuttered windows and their curtains are tight shut. Tommy supposes that it must at least be a few hours past dawn. 

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can just make out the shapes of furniture in the room and the shape of Alfie beside him, lying on his side, turned away from him, bedsheets gathered around his naked chest. Alfie twitches slightly in his sleep. Tommy smells a whiff of soap and realises that Alfie has already been up and to the bathroom while Tommy has been sleeping. Washing the smell of Tommy off him. Tommy starts to tense, and automatically he sits up and looks around for his gun. It’s not in the same place where he’d dropped it. For a second, he starts to panic, then sees that it has been placed on the floor by his bedside. His vest and underpants are still strewn across the floor, as are Alfie’s. 

So, Alfie has the confidence to pad around naked in a stranger’s home in the middle of the night. But not the confidence to believe that Tommy Shelby isn’t playing him. Did Tommy sow seeds of doubt in his mind during their argument in the car? No, the doubt has always been there, at the back of both of their minds, he thinks. _You never take anything for granted in our world,_ he’d reminded him both. Common sense rule if you don’t want to be the sacrificial goat. Maybe he should be playing Alfie right now. 

Alfie twitches again, deep in some kind of dream. He rolls onto his back, one arm flung back on the pillow, and the other reaching out across the quilt towards Tommy. Tommy finds himself wishing that the light was better so that he could just look at him. He feels his nerves rise as he thinks both of the rules and of Alfie’s hot breath in his ear.

 _Get a grip_ , he tells himself.

The stillness of the room refocuses his thoughts on his family. He stares ahead. The family usually gives little thought to Tommy’s solo trips. But this will be the exception. He knows they will have stayed up until late into the night, counting the hours since he was due to return home. He pictures Arthur, John and Michael pacing around the kitchen, gesticulating and exchanging theories about what Alfie Solomons must really be up to, Polly sitting poised at the head of the table, ignoring the commotion so she can contemplate their next move. If she has any sense, she’ll start making a list of possible rats that might have been reporting to Sabini. _Wait it out, Pol_. 

“Waiting for the search party?” Alfie’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. Tommy turns to see his faint form in the dark, sitting upright. “I heard them, you know. In my dreams. Your extended family all casting curses in my name.” 

“That’s about right. What will the boys at the bakery be doing?” 

“Making plans to deal with pesky Italians I should think.” Alfie pauses. “Or perhaps it’s opportunistic gypsies that they’re wondering about.” 

Silence hangs between them, heavy in the airless, dark room that smells of sex and sweat. 

Tommy slides out the bed, and pulls on his vest and underpants, aware that Alfie is watching him and grateful for the privacy afforded by the darkness. 

He leaves the room into the coolness of the hallway. 

He takes a piss and gives thanks that the Savernake estate has stretched to fitting plumbing for a simple toilet and washbasin in the cottage, even if they cannot be bothered to provide poor Bertie with electricity. He thinks back to the days of the privy in the back alley of Watery Lane, a stinking signifier of the community’s poverty. Each sight and whiff of it instilled in his fifteen-year old self the determination to work his family out of the squalor. 

The memory sparks off other recollections of his life aged fifteen, long forgotten until now.

He washes and dries his hands and walks across the hallway to visit the piebald pony in the spare room. 

The animal is at once out of place and at home in the bedroom, which has no doubt been chosen as a temporary shelter for the pony because it holds another door that leads onto the paddock. The floor is littered with straw and animal feed. A damp, dirty mattress propped up against the wall and broken bedframe are the only signs of the bedroom’s original purpose. The pony is slurping water from a trough, and Tommy runs a hand through its mane, careful not to disturb it. 

He remembers that autumn day, all those years ago as a boy, when he first saw another piebald pony plod down his street.

He closes his eyes.

\----------------

 

_1905_

The pony is laden with saddlebags filled with scrap metal, and is accompanied by the Holts, a large Romany gypsy family who are making their annual trip from the countryside to a city to find work and lodgings over the colder months. The Shelbys make good money that winter by helping the Holts and others from the community to find lodgings, as well as people and places who will buy their crafts and metal. The Shelby boys provide extra labour to some of the gypsy families as part of the deal their family had struck. 

Tommy quickly wins the trust of the Holts, who are impressed to find that the quiet fifteen-year old is also a confident and driven young salesman who has already built up a network of contacts to whom he sells their goods at a decent price. 

“He’s a fast talker and thinks he’s a charmer, but he wouldn’t know what a hammer was even if you beat him around the face with it,” Arthur Shelby Snr. says dismissively when one day Mr. Holt tries to praise his industrious son. The Holts all laugh, while Tommy feels his ears burn and his heart rage. 

He channels the energy from his anger into learning some carpentry and leatherwork basics under the tutelage of the Holts’ eldest son Eddie, who is one year his senior. Eddie is tall, and sinewy and tanned from a life lived mainly outdoors, and luckily for Tommy, an easy-going and smiling tutor. In return, Tommy helps Eddie practise his arithmetic, for Eddie is confident enough in himself to admit his own shortcomings to the younger boy. 

Tommy spends more and more time with Eddie, usually sat on the floor of one of the back rooms in the large abandoned factory space that the gypsies had claimed. They work well into the night, then smoke and drink whisky stolen from Tommy’s dad, glad to escape from their families. One evening, a tipsy Eddie hammers his little finger instead of the nail on a plank of wood. He howls and laughs in pain. Tommy, tittering at the sight, reaches across Eddie and flicks the injured finger. 

“You little shit!” Eddie exclaims. He kisses him. 

For the next couple of evenings, the boys smoke, drink, kiss, fumble around and do very little work. When Eddie sticks his hand down the front of Tommy’s trousers and touches him until he comes, Tommy thinks, _If the Bible says this is wrong, consider me an unbeliever_. He misses dinner and instead watches Eddie tremble and groan in pleasure while he strokes him.

On the fourth evening, after a few swigs of whisky and drunken kisses, Eddie’s hands reach down the back of Tommy’s trousers and he slides cold fingers between Tommy’s arse cheeks. 

Tommy nods and kisses him. “Yeah”.

“ _No”_. A familiar, sharp voice from behind Tommy cuts into the air. His stomach drops. Eddie is looking over Tommy’s shoulder at the owner of the voice, frozen in horror. 

“Away you go then, lad, enough of that.” Polly smacks Eddie over the head. “You’re lucky it’s me that found you and not your father. Don’t make me tell you twice.” 

Eddie, still in shock, scrambles to his feet, and scarpers. 

Tommy stands up, his trousers still partly unbuttoned. He stares at his feet, fists clenched, not ready to take a lecture from this young woman, she’s not actually his mother, after all. 

Polly looks at her humiliated nephew. His cheeks are burning, and he seems smaller than usual, and yet she still sees the unrepentant look of a Shelby on his face. She takes heart from this.

“You know why I had to put a stop to that.”

Tommy starts to bounce on his toes nervously and prepares to storm past his aunt.  
“You think everything I do is wrong anyway—” 

“Tommy, it’s not wrong, it’s _dangerous_.”

He looks up from his feet, surprised.

“I know you’ve got ambition, you want a change from this life. We all take risks one way or another to get things to change. And sometimes we make sacrifices, but it's worth it if it builds power for the family.”

She takes a deep breath. 

“ _This _is a risk that is not worth the sacrifices. Not worth a prison sentence. Not worth your _life_ if you look at a lad the wrong way.” __

__Tommy winces. His aunt’s voice wobbles - she really is afraid for him._ _

__“You’re the clever one. You know it, the family knows it. Our enemies know it. So be clever about this. I know you’ve got an eye for the girls, and I know they like you too.”_ _

__Polly sees he is listening and further twists the knife in to be sure he gets the message. “That lad, he’s older than you but he’s not clever. I could see him looking at you with that daft look on his face the moment that lot set foot in our street with their bloody pony. And his daft face is going to get him into trouble one day, mark my words.”_ _

__She’s pushed Tommy too far. He strides past her so she can’t see the tears that are now prickling his eyes._ _

__“I will say whatever needs to be said to protect you and the family”, she calls to him._ _

__They never speak of it again. Polly gives Tommy added responsibility for the Shelby accounts so she can keep an eye on him at home. Tommy’s capability for managing his father’s debts means that the decision is questioned by no one._ _

__The Holts don’t return to Birmingham the following year. Tommy forgets about Eddie. Once the war begins, the Shelbys lose touch with many of their contacts from the gypsy community as families split and move around the country._ _

__Tommy hasn’t heard the Holt name mentioned in years. He has no idea where Eddie’s daft face is now._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tracks that helped me write this chapter:  
> I Can't Keep You - Ex:Re This song was recommended by Cillian Murphy himself on his BBC 6 Music radio show. Thanks Cillian for introducing me to this!  
> Horses in My Dreams - PJ Harvey  
> Reduced to the Fantasmic - Teho Teardo


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Alfie learn one or two things about each other and try to figure out what it means for them both.

Tommy opens his eyes. They’ve only been closed for a matter of seconds, but the repressed memory has returned with such detail that he feels like he has been away for a long time. 

He replays the moments with Eddie in his mind again. Even at fifteen he knew he what he wanted. In rare moments throughout the years, he’d thought about what he’d do with a man, fucking planned it all out in his head like he does with everything else. Then he’d very deliberately not thought about it. 

And now he has thought about it and then the rest of it has somehow all came very fucking naturally to him, he thinks wryly, the image of Alfie’s flushed face and wet lips suddenly in his head. But _fuck_ , he might not have got as far as he is in life now if he _had_ done anything about it, that’s for sure. Polly is still right. 

He still has his hand in the pony’s mane, and he can feel straw from the floor sticking to his bare feet. The pony has stopped drinking, and is now standing still, asleep. 

Tommy pats the pony’s head goodbye. He goes into the kitchen, washes his hands and his feet. He picks up one of the now dry cigarettes from the stove, and the box of matches. He’s about to go out the front door of the cottage to have his cigarette, then he stops. He turns around and returns to the bedroom instead. As he turns the doorknob and the door creaks open, he pauses. He’s about to return to a bed with Alfie Solomons still in it, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what he wants to do next. 

The room is no longer in complete darkness. Alfie has opened the shutters, curtains and window, and the beginnings of daylight brighten the room. Alfie is back in bed, fiddling with his pocket watch and drinking water out of one of the glasses. He’s filled up the other glass and left it at Tommy’s side of the bed. He doesn’t look up or acknowledge Tommy. 

Tommy glances down by his bedside. The gun is still there. _Now who’s the paranoid bastard_.

He walks over to the open window, lights up and leans out to smoke, idly wondering if Sabini’s men could have got up early enough to line him up in their shots, but he admits to himself that he does trust Alfie’s instincts that it is safe to open the window. 

The cool air offers no respite from the tension still in the room. He can feel Alfie watching him. He wants to turn to look at him, but that would be making the first move.

Alfie breaks the silence first. 

“Smoking in a bedroom at four o’clock in the morning, not offering a cigarette to your bedfellow. Fucking rude, mate”. 

Tommy turns around. He takes a draw of the cigarette and exhales slowly. Four o’clock in the morning. That means four and a half hours of sleep, or thereabouts. Not bad. That’s got to be some kind of record for him. He takes his time to walk over to Alfie’s side of the bed, attempting to appear as if he doesn’t care what Alfie might be thinking. He holds out the cigarette to him, tries not to catch his eye. 

Alfie waves the cigarette away. “Nah, you’re alright, filthy habit”, he chides, as if he hadn’t smoked just hours earlier. He reaches forward and tugs at the waistband of Tommy’s underpants, then lets it snap back. He sighs.

Alfie’s very subtly telling him to drop the act, Tommy realises. He feels a strange rush of relief. He takes one more draw from his cigarette then flicks it out the window. He walks around to his side of the bed and climbs back in. He picks up his glass and takes a gulp of water before setting it back down.

Alfie turns to him. “I have come to the inescapable conclusion that that Bertie Felton has got it in for me.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows. He can sense a ramble coming on and realises that he finds it endearing. “Is that right.” He leans back upon the headboard, already feeling less tense.

“He makes us both share this bedroom with its _one_ bed right, when he knows full well that a gypsy would be perfectly happy sleeping with a horse in a room full of hay.”

“Alfie—” 

“Sets it up all cosy with the soft lighting,” Alfie gestures towards the dead oil lamps. “Even hands me a nice little bottle of something to help me along, gets you to take off your wet shirt. Fucking enabler, so he is.”

Tommy, thrown by Alfie’s framing of him as some kind of temptation, struggles to keep from smiling as Alfie goes on: 

“He must have taken one look at me, right, and thought, I’m going to torment this big queer of a Jew. See how long I can wind him up before he indulges in a little bit of the old _mishkav zakhar_ , even though the Torah tells him ‘And if a man lies with mankind…’ etcetera, etcetera, ‘the two of them have done an abhorrent thing; they shall surely be put to death - their bloodguilt is upon them.’” 

He snorts in amusement and swings the chain of the watch around his fingers. “A punishment that should very well be on our cards anyway, Tommy, so all Mr. Felton’s scheming, well, it’s all in vain, isn’t it.” 

Tommy is grinning too, no point in trying to hide it. He’s suddenly filled with affection for Alfie, relieved that his stream of consciousness has removed the tension in the room. Before he can stop himself, he’s reaching forward and softly touching Alfie’s cheek with the back of his hand, feeling the bristles of his beard under his fingers. 

Alfie looks up, surprised. 

_Fuck, what am I doing_. Tommy starts to tense up. His hand freezes, as he considers that Alfie’s musings usually have some kind of message attached to them.

Alfie covers Tommy’s hand with his own and holds it. He looks Tommy straight in the eye.

“And had that indeed been his plan, Mr. Felton wouldn’t have been the first one who’s tried to set me up like that”, he says. 

Tommy removes his hand and rests it on the quilt, but Alfie’s hand is still covering it. He struggles to articulate the question now forming in his mind. “Do the bakers…know?”

Alfie’s eyes darken. “Only some dead ones.”

“They brought on themselves”, he continues and there’s a tinge of resentment in his voice as his eyes now widen at the memory. “Put a handsome fellow in my path for a while. Tried a cheeky bit of bribery, you know, something about crying to some old rabbi and the police, if I didn’t roll over. I mean, don’t you think that lacks imagination? ‘Cos, right, that is a cack-handed attempt at a coup, if ever there was one.” He toys with the signet ring on Tommy’s finger, as if trying to prise it off. 

Tommy nods. “So you got rid of them.” 

Alfie pauses for a moment and stares into the middle distance, as if debating with himself what he wants to say.

“Mmm. Very fucking messy I had to be too, me being unprepared for it and all. Had to improvise.” He breaks off from his reverie. “You’ve never been in such a predicament, have you?”

“No. You know that already.” 

Alfie smirks. Tommy sees Eddie’s smile. He inhales slowly. 

“Easy enough to avoid, when in my case there’s women to turn my head.” 

“Distracts you enough from remembering that sometimes you’d actually prefer a bit of cock, doesn’t it? How very convenient for you.” 

Tommy stares at Alfie’s lips while he ponders his words. Hearing Alfie say it out loud and so matter-of-factly removes yet another weight from his mind… and stirs something in him.

“Not distracting me now though, is it.” 

He slides under the covers and takes Alfie in his mouth. 

\--------

Afterwards, they lie on their backs, eyes half-closed. 

Tommy’s clothes lie in a crumpled heap again, this time at the end of the bed. Alfie, still slightly shaky having just come, had pulled his vest up, and breathlessly kissed his way down Tommy’s torso, following the trail of hair that led straight to his cock. 

_Fuck_. Tommy is fuzzy-headed as he recalls these last few minutes, can feel himself slipping back into sleep at last, but for one question niggling at him. 

“Did you get rid of the lad too?” he whispers.

His question pulls them out of their haze. Alfie turns to face him in disbelief. “What lad would that be then?” he says tersely. “What kind of assumptions are you making about me? If the young ones were what I liked, d’you think I’d’ve fucked someone as long in the tooth as you are?” 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Tommy senses that he needs to be on his guard again. But the fact that Alfie appears more preoccupied at the thought that someone might think he likes younger lads, rather than the question of whether he murdered someone or not, is…funny.

Alfie is clearly perturbed by the languid smile that crosses Tommy’s face. He taps Tommy’s face to bring him to attention. “Did I get rid of the _man_ , Tommy. Yeah, I did. Him too.” 

“And I would do it all over again”, he concludes, teeth gritted. He stares through Tommy waiting for him to react. 

Tommy doesn’t flinch. So, Alfie’s circled back to the topic of betrayal again. Paranoid bastard. And maybe he should be, too. He returns Alfie’s stare. He intends to send a warning as well. “I would do the same.” 

They both look away. 

_Fuck's sake_ , Tommy thinks. 

“Fuck’s sake”, Alfie says. 

They’ve riled each other to the point that they’re now both very much alert. 

A silence drags out between them for a while until frustration gets the better of Tommy. May as well use the time to talk about something useful, he thinks. He sits up. 

“So, it’s time to deal with a rat problem”, he says to change the subject. 

“Mmm. Before they breed any further”. Alfie replies. “I, with my wisdom of foresight, did point this out to you earlier, did I not. It fell on your deaf ears, mate.” 

He’s still irritated. Tommy bites his tongue to stop himself from retorting that Alfie hadn’t been particularly proactive in taking any initiative on the matter either, focused as they both were on building the business. 

“Likely to be a couple of them at both our ends, tracking us both,” he continues, ignoring Alfie’s remark. “Waiting to find out if we’d be in the same place without any men about.”

“Mmm.”

“Flush them out while we follow up on those contacts, then--”

“Riiiiight…” Alfie draws out his interruption in a mocking voice.

Tommy’s irritation mounts. 

“What?”

“Except, right, when it comes to rats, I have it on good authority that you’ve a rather terrible record when it comes to spotting them.”

An offhand reference to Grace. How long has Alfie been saving up that line for? The anger hits Tommy without warning, knocking the breath out of him, and he thinks for a moment he’s going to smash Alfie’s head into the headboard. He grips the sheets tightly.

“Would you say I just _attract_ them, Alfie?” he retorts, to acknowledge the multi-levelled fucking irony of Alfie’s remark. 

“ _Or_ , how about you get better at telling your friends from your enemies. There’s a novel thought.”

The fucking nerve. And Alfie knows it.

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more. Especially when some of them can’t make up their minds what they want to be.”

“Hmm.” Alfie says. He’s breathing hard too. He shakes his head and makes a move to turn away, but Tommy places a finger on his sternum, and presses, hard. Alfie looks up, brow furrowed. He wraps his hand around Tommy’s wrist, tight.

They stare at each other for a long time, locked in their positions. 

Then Tommy sees Alfie’s eyes soften. Alfie looks downwards at Tommy’s finger and releases his hand from his wrist. Tommy exhales. He removes his finger and instead places his hand on Alfie’s chest. Alfie slides back down onto the pillow, and Tommy finds himself following. Alfie gazes at Tommy for a moment, then places his hand over his and closes his eyes.

They’ve come to an agreement. Tommy can’t articulate what it is, but he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the chapter where Alfie calls me out on my plot device Mr. Felton. Meta, huh. 
> 
> This chapter has been pretty much complete for months now...just couldn't stop tweaking it...then un-tweaking it. Final chapter will be up once I get past some deadlines.
> 
> Songs that helped me write this:  
> No One's Easy to Love by Sharon van Etten  
> Too Real by Fontaines DC  
> He War by Cat Power
> 
> I'm on tumblr now if anyone would like to say hello or update me on your stuff : BoringboringboringnoFascinating2


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